Saturday Routine

It's 2:19 p.m.

I was fortunate enough to be raised in a home that had a full-time “happy homemaker,” and so I grew up in a house where there were regular meals, home baking, clean sheets, vacuumed carpets, washed floors and walls, sparkling windows, folded laundry, a fridge and cupboards bulging with groceries that someone else did the weekly shopping for, and so on. I lived a life of luxury, though didn’t realize it. It was just the way things were in the home my parents provided, and I took these things for granted. I wanted for nothing.

Now I live in a house where there is no happy homemaker. There is just me, who likes a neat and tidy place because that’s the environment she grew up in, but doesn’t want to put in all the time necessary, herself, to make and keep it so.  I do the bare minimum required in order to meet my own relatively low standards, which would probably embarrass my mother.

Today, my first day off after three days at work, I have just spent an hour (the first of the weekend) doing the housework required for me to spend the next few days in an environment that is pleasant and comfortable. I have no choice; it’s that or live in a sty. Someone has to change the sheets and throw my clothes and towels into the washer. Someone has to wash, dry and put away the dishes. Someone has to pick things up and set the roomba going and clean its brushes afterward. Someone has to. My domestic servant is me.

So, one hour down and I’m taking a wee breather before tackling the next sinkful of dirty dishes. It’s not terrible drudgery when I’m not rushing through it. When I listen to favourite music or turn on CBC Radio and don’t hurry, hurry, hurry to get the chores over with, it’s actually not too terrible. If I don’t think about things I’d rather be doing, I can cope without impatience. If I try, I can take a lame, relieved pride in a job well done. Okay: done. Okay: half done. Whatever.

Might as well get back at it. Once the kitchen is clean, I can mess it up again. 

From the back step. 

Cat on a Cold Shake Roof

Over the weekend it warmed up from 30-below to 25-below. Even if I don't go out, myself, I can always tell, because I see the cats start running around on the roof of the tractor shed.

This guy, Bob (due to his stumpy tail; he survived a wrestling match with a motor fan one winter), is our resident tom. He catches birds and delivers them to his kittens. He looks after his family. No murderous marauding tomcatting for Bob!

He was busy chasing the "new" momcat around the yard on the weekend; she was dropped off at a farm five miles from here. She is a lovely, friendly calico, but somebody didn't want her. Perhaps she had begun to claw their fine furniture or pee on their bed. So her owners did what any irresponsible asshole would — dumped her in the country, in the freezing cold.

Fortunately for her she was dumped at the yard of someone who, although they didn't want her at their place, cared enough to keep her in their garage, warm and fed, till they could find her a home.

It took her and Bob quite a long time to warm up to each other, but now they are courting and perhaps we will have a litter of kittens in the barn in a month or two.

Between Gods

Alison Pick's memoir Between Gods is about her study of Judaism.

Pick's father's family lost many members during the Holocaust and, in his life in Canada, he didn't practise his parents' religion. Pick herself, though, as an adult, is drawn to it. She signs up for classes given by a Jewish rabbi, begins (with her willing and supportive spouse) to practise Jewish rituals, and looks for a Jewish friend. She tells her readers a bit of the history of her murdered grandparents and cousins, and struggles to acknowledge the effect of these horrors on her own life. She feels it is somehow part of her — or she must make it so. She must honour it and mourn it and try to understand it. She also sees a therapist, Charlotte, to help her cope with a longstanding depression.

An excerpt:

"I ask Charlotte my questions about change. Her answer is a resounding no. People can't change their essential selves. But what they can change is how they relate to themselves. And that makes all the difference.

It's early on a weekday morning, mothers walking their kids to school along the leafy residential street outside Charlotte's office. She looks fresh, her hair still damp from the shower. 'I can't stop thinking about evil,' I say.

I tell her about little Eva on that cold morning in Auschwitz. Five years old. Pulling up her sleeve, clenching her milk teeth against the pain of the tattoo. Trying not to cry. This is the detail that has locked itself in my mind, the detail I cannot forget. 'Is evil archetypal?' I ask Charlotte. 'That kind of evil?'

I expect she will say yes — Jung's framework is her framework —but instead she is silent. 'It's not useful to try and understand it,' she says.

'So what can I do?'

It is perhaps the most honest question I have ever asked of anyone. I am entirely childlike in my desire to know. How can I make sense of a world where this could happen?

'You could try to imagine what they would want,' Charlotte says.

'What who would want?'

'Your dead relatives. The people who were killed.' She coughs. 'Your great-grandmother Marianne.'

I look at her blankly. 'But what is evil? Is it an impulse in all of us?'

I think of my university courses in social psychology, the famous studies where subjects, many subjects, could be goaded into delivering larger and larger shocks to a victim until the shocks were purportedly big enough to kill.

'The Holocaust must have been imagined by sociopaths and then executed by unthinking followers,' I say. 'And the depressed economy, people hungry and willing ...'

Charlotte is silent.

'It makes my own suffering seem ridiculous,' I say. 'Like, like ...  I am searching for an apt comparison, for something without the cliché of "a grain of sand" or "a speck of dust."

'Your suffering is also valid,' Charlotte says. 'Talking yourself out of it only gives it more power.'

I think that my suffering is a shard of their suffering. Again the clichés.

'There's one thing I know,' Charlotte says. 'They would not want you to suffer.'

'Who?' I ask.

"Well, Marianne, for example. Little Eva.'

But I resist. If I don't suffer, Eva will be forgotten. The small girl with her stuffed mouse in the freezing cold barracks in Auschwitz. My suffering is, I realize, a perverse kind of tribute.

'Think of it in reverse,' Charlotte says. 'Would you want her to suffer for you?'

'Of course not!'

'Well?'

It occurs to me then — comes over me in a wave of feeling — that there is a light that shines on all things. That shines and can never be extinguished."

Make Your Own Diffuser Oil

1/4 cup rubbing alcohol (vodka works too)

1/4 cup hot water

20-25 drops essential oil 

Swirl to mix.

One in the bathroom.

Use an essential oil you love:

• Eucalyptus, peppermint, and lavender reduce tension • Peppermint energizes • Lemon, lemongrass, and thyme purify • Lavender, orange, peppermint, cedarwood, frankincense, and jasmine inspire a positive mental state and combat depression

One in the kitchen. The carved utensils in the ladyhead vase were carved by my great-great-great grandfather for my great-grandmother when she was a child.

Guest blogging, flower arranging

I've known Julie since I was 19; that's 37 years. We've written letters back and forth all this time.
Last week I sent her one that she wanted to repost on her blog, and with my permission she edited out the more personal stuff and did.
You can read it HERE.

I need a lesson in flower arranging. I cannot make a bouquet of flowers look right, no-how.

Before.

I put these in a vase on Friday night after getting home from work. I was tired and it seemed like a huge job by the time I cut the stems and so on, and I never did get them looking as stunning as they could.

I was going to read up online and get some basic tips, and then rearrange this bouquet and post a photo of the "after." But I don't feel like it now.

These flowers are cheery anyway, and remind me how much beauty there is.

No Arithmetic

One thing about the work I do: the time flies by. Eight hours, 10, 12 ... nose to the grindstone and they're gone in a flash.
My friends say "Perfect job for you, Kathy." They're right. I'm all about reading and writing; this is play, for me. There are challenges, but they're right up my alley. They're the kind of problems I like to wrestle with.

I'm tired at the end of the day; I won't lie.
Also, I don't like being stuck inside on a sunny warm day.
I don't like having to hustle to go somewhere in the morning, any morning.
But reading and writing, and getting paid for it?
Seriously. Perfect.

Friends also tell me from time to time, "You've got a book in you."
I'm not so sure.
I tell them I don't have anything to say.
To write a book, you need something to say.

Someone You Love has Dementia

My "mother-in-law from heaven" has written an article that has been published in the WADENA NEWS this week. It's about her experience from the time of my father-in-law's diagnosis of dementia until now, when he is in a nursing home. Here it is: SOMEONE YOU LOVE HAS DEMENTIA.

As for the more mundane aspects of daily life, after carrying on about the recycling yesterday I cleaned up that cluttered corner of the porch and changed the system at our house. This laundry hamper was brought from the bedroom to the kitchen and will collect all the recycling until it's full. Then the garbage bag inside will be carried to the basement, where I will sort its contents into separate bags that are now lined up against a bare wall. When they are overflowing, then off to the recycling depot they will go.

Why didn't I think of this sooner?
It's because, when it comes to many household details, I don't dwell on them long enough at any one time to take action. I usually have a thought and then carry on to something else. It's why the Christmas tree was only taken down yesterday. For the past month, I just walked on by!

Polite and Gentle Bodies

My body speaks gently to me. First I think I'm hungry. I do nothing about it. After a while I know I'm hungry. Still I do nothing about it. I'm in bed, reading Alison Pick's memoir Between Gods about her reach for Judaism. I've eaten lots of granola lately — it's quick and easy, but I had a bowlful before bed last night and don't want it again just yet.

My body is patient. And then it is not. I start to burp; that's a message I've come to recognize as "Eat." I keep reading.

Then I feel nauseated. Belly is empty. Put something in!

It reminds me of Emil, newborn. How first thing in the morning he would be in his basket by the bed and I'd hear his sweet, patient ch-ch-ch-ch for some time, but I wouldn't hear it as a call. Loving my sleep, I wouldn't get up and feed him till finally he'd let out a wail and I'd realize he'd been asking politely, all along, till my unresponsiveness demanded something more forceful.

I go to the kitchen, not wanting to spend any time making toast, eggs, or oatmeal, preferring to read some more. Scott brought bananas home from Kelvington yesterday. One of those will do.

Recycling would be a whole lot more convenient if the depot would take everything in one large bag, unsorted. When you have to keep it all separate, you have half a dozen separate bags and containers to fill with glass, plastic, tin, cardboard, newspaper and refundables before  you lug them out to your car. I still haven't figured out a system that doesn't look like a frigging pile of clutter all the time, or else requires numerous trips to the basement each day. Not that I've put my mind to a solution; meanwhile this mess in the porch makes me crazy. 

Starting Starter

In recent weeks I've started baking bread again. Funny how you go from doing it week after week to not doing it for months. But that's me. I never stick to a routine forever — except the coffee-in-the-morning one.

Yesterday I mixed up a sourdough starter. It will sit on the kitchen counter for six days, stirred once a day, and then go into the fridge to be used once a week. One cup of the starter goes into each batch of bread; one cup of flour and one cup of water is added back into it. If the starter is not used weekly, you still have to discard one cup of it and add the flour and water. My disinclination toward wastefulness will help me stick to the baking routine. For a while.

Starter gives the bread an extra little flavour kick as well as boosting its superbread abilities; don't ask me what they are. Rising, I suppose.

Gord (if you're reading), you'll be happy. I know you like the sourdough bread best. Cross your fingers I keep up with the plan till next time you're out here. (And if you can lay hands on some soy grits, please do. Sourdough and soy grits in your bread cannot be beat.)

Lately I've found the bread itself bland. Sure it's 100% whole wheat flour so has plenty of heft; sure it's got sesame and sunflower seeds and is always toasted; sure the dough's been sweetened with molasses. And sure, I always eat it with real butter. But I miss the tang of sourdough.

Interested in trying starter yourself? You'll find the recipe here: CLICK.

Sweet-Scented Treasures

From our visit to Cathy and Roger in Oakburn, we returned with many beeswax treasures.

One of the beauties of these items is the sweet scent, even when they are not burning.
Once in a while you get a whiff when you walk by.

Making Granola

Yesterday I made granola.
It's the first time in ages, since I haven't been to visit the "honey man" in some time.
But when Shelly and I went to see Cathy, we did some shopping in their warehouse.
They raise bees, harvest honey, sell it, and also make a wide variety of pure beeswax candles.

What I want to know is, what is the trick to getting the lid tightly onto these pails?
I put a hand on the middle and threw my entire weight onto it, like a Ukrainian dancer, and still the lid was loose.
I had to leave it till Scott came home with his superior strength.

Here's the granola recipe: CLICK HERE.
It came from Cathy (whose wax arts I wax on about in the next entry) about 30 years ago.

Talking to Lars

Saturday was Pat and Ivan's 57th wedding anniversary.
We went to the lodge where Ivan lives and made ourselves at home around the kitchen table in the activity room.
Scott brought his laptop to connect up with Ivan's cousin Lars in Sweden for a chitchat.

Pat, on the left, is standing behind Ivan's chair. Scott is in the hat, and his brother Bruce is far right. 

I always like to mention that Pat is my mother-in-law "from heaven."
She laughs at my wisecracks; only one of many reasons to love her.

Kitchen Table

Is there anything as pleasing as a library haul?
I think not.

Unless it's red wine, or a handwritten letter in the mail, or fresh flowers, or lotus candles made by friends.

Or a text from your sister, telling you she's finally repaired your broken stained glass:

Heeeeeeere Moosie Moosie

We’ve been calling Jenna Doodle into the porch before we go to bed, because we’re in deep cold: 30-below, at night. She is accustomed to being outside and has an electrical heating pad in her insulated doghouse, but still — 30 below is 30 below.

Yeah, sorry: A moose comes to visit and all you get are these lousy tracks.

And so, without the old dog barking her fool head off out there at night, a moose has been tripping right past our back step! We haven’t seen it; only its tracks and scat.

Who needs a dark doghouse when you can lie in the sun?

I put a dozen apple cores on the step for the moose before I went to bed last night but they didn’t turn its eye, apparently.

"Ain't no damn moose gettin' in here while I'm on watch!" Jenna's keeping a sharp eye on the back driveway where the moose comes in.

I keep looking out the window, too.

Road Trip

I was just about to step out Everett's door on my way to work last Friday morning, when my "texting machine" beeped.

"Are you home this weekend?"

Yep.

"I'm leaving by noon. See you tonight!"

It was my old KATIMAVIK pal SHELLY, who lives north of Edmonton, giving me a weekend to look forward to.

The next morning as we sipped our coffee and nibbled on toast, she said, "Should we?"

Indeed we should, so after a quick phone call to make sure our other Katimavik "sista" Cathy near Oakburn was home and up for company, we hit the road. It was a snowy day and the pavement had crusty ice on it, but that didn't stop us. It takes more than that to keep gals from the prairie provinces at home.

Four hours after leaving my driveway, we pulled into Cathy's place, where we spent the next two days yakking, drinking wine, eating like queens, being serenaded by talented people who can play guitars, mandolins and clarinets, and feeling spoiled rotten.

Cathy and her husband Roger have four kids, and it happens that the two boys were there, which was a real pleasure since we hadn't seen any of them for about 12 years. They've changed a bit! The boys, that is.

Michaud, Joel, Cathy

Michaud and Roger made crepes one morning for breakfast.

Now Shelly, she likes to keep busy, so was pleased when she figured out a sewing project she could work on.

Cathy and Shelly at the sewing machine in an upstairs bedroom.

On Sunday afternoon we took a drive to the one-horse town where Cathy and Roger have purchased on old church that is no longer in service.

They were good sports and made prayer hands for me.

Unfortunately, my photos of the interior turned out blurry — I was probably shivering, as they don't keep the building heated —but Shelly and I were wowed by its beauty.

And then Monday morning came. It was a glorious sunny day and we hated to leave, as Cathy is family to us after our Katimavik experience so many years ago — 1978-79 — but it was great to be together again. Maybe we won't wait 12 years to repeat the performance.

Magpies

Scott hates magpies.
But I can't.

Oh, I don't like their noise. We have a half-dozen of them in the yard over winter, and they nest in our spruce trees and make a hell of a racket when they are young.

They steal the old dog Jenna's food if she doesn't eat it all immediately, and they hang on the suet feeders I put out for the smaller birds, and devour it. They are often seen beneath the niger seed feeders, searching the ground for anything the smaller birds might have dropped, because their own larger beaks can't get the seed out of the feeders hung on tree branches.

Scott looks out the window, sees them there and curses them. He threatens to get a gun and ping them off.

But I think: magpies have to eat in winter too.

From the library I've ordered a book called Bird Brains, by Candace Savage.

The RM grader (I assume) creates these ridges in the field along the grid road, to catch drifting snow.

Personal Religion

The Dalai Lama's religion, he says, is "kindness."

That's a good religion to have.

Mine is "fairness," though I do believe "It's better to be kind than to be right."
Easier said than done, but worth remembering.

Teeny Tiny Tracks

Here's a public alert for all you whole-wheat bread bakers out there:

You can add eight cups of liquid ingredients instead of 10, and your bread will still turn out fine!

Apparently I am not as good at multi-tasking as I thought. Tsk. Wondered why the dough was so stiff, but didn't twig into the reason till it was rising already. That's when I noticed the two cups of liquid still in the measuring cup on the window sill, where I had set it to settle "all the better to eyeball the water level" while doing something else. And forgetting all about it.

Just one more example of why I never leave the room when there is a tap running.

Note added next morning: Normally to toast my bread, you have to put it down twice if you want it nicely browned. Not when you've shorted the liquid, though! One time does the trick.

Lazy Sunday Morning

Email to Dad:

http://www.thelocal.se/20150114/the-five-strangest-habits-of-the-swedes

Kind of an interesting article.

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Never did get outside yesterday! but by cracky, I got all those goddamn dishes done. 

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From my handwritten journal 

Sunday May 22 2005

Mom didn't eat today. She couldn't lift a glass of water to her lips. She told Reta (When? Not sure, but Reta told me today) she dreamed that her friend Mary Jo was going through the clothes in Mom's closet and Mom told her not to worry, that her three girls could wear her tops and that Karen had the same size bum as her and would be able to wear her pants.

I told Reta that's funny, Mom always said Karen and Joan have no bums and I am the one with a big bum like hers. 

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Another page in the same journal:

Depression. An Allergic Reaction to Life?

On The Current this morning there was discussion of a new idea about what causes depression. You can listen to the podcast and read an article by clicking HERE.

"Hamlet is one of literature's iconic depressives."